


Diamond In The Rough

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mystrade Valentines Calendar 2018, Secret Admirer, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 07:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Of the pile of secret Valentines on his desk, two stand out to Greg for very different reasons. One is more straightforward than the other, but neither is exactly what it seems.





	Diamond In The Rough

**Author's Note:**

> Immense thanks to mottlemoth for organising this Valentine's Calendar. I love being part of such things.

FROM: [Donovan.sally.m@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Donovan.sally.m@metropolice.gov.uk)

TO: [ALL.homicide@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:ALL.homicide@metropolice.gov.uk); [ALL.forensic@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:ALL.forensic@metropolice.gov.uk); [sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk)

SUBJECT: Valentine’s Day            

Hi all,

You might have heard we’ve decided to do secret Valentines this year. Paulson suggested it, in case anyone wants to complain. There’ll be a letterbox in the break room. Post your envelopes by 10pm Tuesday 13th February and the night shift will sort and deliver in time for Valentine’s Day.

Remember – SECRET Valentines!

Sally Donovan

Detective Sergeant, Homicide Division

New Scotland Yard, London

 

+++

FROM: [Lestrade.gregory.p@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Lestrade.gregory.p@metropolice.gov.uk)

TO: [Donovan.sally.m@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Donovan.sally.m@metropolice.gov.uk)

SUBJECT: Re: Valentine’s Day    

You do realise you sent this to Sherlock?

Gregory Lestrade

Detective Inspector, Homicide Division

New Scotland Yard, London

 

+++

FROM: [Donovan.sally.m@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Donovan.sally.m@metropolice.gov.uk)  

TO: [Lestrade.gregory.p@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Lestrade.gregory.p@metropolice.gov.uk)

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Valentine’s Day           

Just a bit of fun, boss. Not like he’ll do anything about it. Who’s he going to send a Valentine to?

Sally Donovan

Detective Sergeant, Homicide Division

New Scotland Yard, London

 

+++

FROM: [Lestrade.gregory.p@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Lestrade.gregory.p@metropolice.gov.uk)

TO: [Donovan.sally.m@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Donovan.sally.m@metropolice.gov.uk)

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Valentine’s Day     

Not me. Or you.

Gregory Lestrade

Detective Inspector, Homicide Division

New Scotland Yard, London

 

+++

FROM: [Donovan.sally.m@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Donovan.sally.m@nsy.gov.uk)  

TO: [Lestrade.gregory.p@nsy.gov.uk](mailto:Lestrade.gregory.p@metropolice.gov.uk)

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Valentine’s Day             

Very true. Better start thinking about who you want to send some to!

Sally Donovan

Detective Sergeant, Homicide Division

New Scotland Yard, London

 

+++

Greg barely paid any attention to Valentine’s Day. To him, it was a year marked red with blood, rather than roses. Homicides were a given, and the last few years he’d had no choice but to work, even on nights he wasn’t on call. Sharon had never understood. Now, he didn’t have to worry about it so he volunteered to work, sometimes even a double; the younger officers appreciated the chance for a night off, even if it was interrupted at some point.

Today he was on the day shift, knowing full well he’d probably take the night, too. He’d been on nights for the last few days, and should have today off; it would be a caffeine fuelled effort, for sure. It wasn’t until Greg arrived to find his desk covered in envelopes that he even remembered the secret Valentine thing Donovan had organised. Looking at the pile – there had to be a dozen there – a wave of guilt flowed over him. Anyone out there hoping for one from him would be disappointed. It was anonymous though, which was a blessing. Who could have sent him so many cards? He was curious about the contents, and with nothing more pressing at this point, he sat down and opened the top envelope. It was a revoltingly sappy card, covered in teddies and hearts. Greg opened it, blinking at the scrawl.

_For the cuddliest bastard out there. Best lay off the lager, mate._

He grinned. Thank God he wasn’t the subject of universal desire, as he’d feared for a moment there. Working his way through the pile, most were tongue-in-cheek; he imagined several of the officers had a good time choosing the most sickening cards they could find. A couple were platonic ‘ _You’re great, thanks’_ kind of messages, which made him feel good. Nice to be appreciated. He reached for the next, markedly different to the others. The paper was smooth and heavy, the very weight of it more significant than its mass-produced predecessors. Greg turned it over, looking at his own name, printed carefully in elegant hand, the navy ink as smooth and carefully precise as he’d ever seen. Someone had practiced their penmanship, Greg thought to himself.

He ran his thumb under the flap, watching as it popped open to reveal the front of a handmade card. It slipped easily out of the envelope, and he turned it up, heart beating faster as he studied the image. It was a single, water-coloured red rose, somehow conveying elegance and romance far more subtly than any of the hearts and teddies on the previous cards. Greg stared at it for a moment, wondering who might have chosen such a card for him. There was no marking on the back to indicate its origin; perhaps it had been made for him specifically? The idea was intriguing, and he held onto the moment before slowly opening the card, eyes moving over the text (there was a lot) before settling at the top right.

 

_G – I send this card without expectation or agenda. I wish only to express my admiration and affection. It is your compassion, your willingness to see the best in people that draws me to you. I find myself fascinated by your motivations and I desire a more intimate knowledge of you, in all ways possible. Please know that you are noticed and appreciated for your kind and selfless actions._

_Sincerely, your Valentine._

 

Wow.

Greg blinked, reading and re-reading the carefully penned words. The words were as beautiful in their meaning as in the perfect script; nobody had ever directed such elaborate sentiment his way. Before closing the card he read the words again, a flood of warmth and comfort oozing through him. Someone was harbouring a serious crush, he thought. He wondered who it could be. There were several junior officers he thought might be a little smitten. Molly had always had a soft spot, too – but she was seeing someone, wasn’t she? Greg considered the language. It was hardly classic grown-up crush material though – more like the kind of prose a lovesick teenager might write to the object of their affection. Not that he didn’t appreciate it – something told him he’d be re-reading it often. Greg tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, not wanting to share such a heartfelt message with the rest of the team. He suspected, based on most of the messages, there would be a fair amount of, ‘show us your haul’ in the next few days. Best keep this one to himself. He opened a few more fairly generic cards, until only one remained. Reaching blindly for the last card, Greg found himself looking at another example of fine stationery. This was less expensive but still a few levels above the cheap pads of lined paper provided by NSY. His name was scrawled this time, barely recognisable except for the initials. Opening the envelope revealed a single sheet of paper, folded in half. Greg saw a simple image on the folded face of paper – two hearts entwined, penned with the same carelessness as his name on the envelope. When he folded it open this time, the inside was covered with the kind of careful printing penned by someone with a naturally messy hand. Like the person who addressed it, he thought. Focussing on the words, he began to read.

 

_Gregory – it has come to my attention that you are without a date this evening. Should the opportunity arise I would be pleased to bend you over my desk – or yours if you prefer – and satisfy both our carnal needs. I will, of course, be discreet._

_Sincerely, MH_

 

Fairly sure he had hallucinated the contents of the card, Greg read it again. And again, and then once more, just to be sure. What the hell? He almost called Sally in to get her opinion of its validity but stopped himself just in time. What the hell kind of message was this? His detective’s brain clicked into gear, looking at the evidence before him. Expensive stationery; formal phrasing; signed with initials. The only person he knew with those initials was...unlikely to be behind such a message. Although…Greg looked again at the stationery and phrasing. Those both fit. He tried to imagine Mycroft writing the card, choosing those words. He felt a flush stain his cheeks at the idea that followed, of the scene Mycroft had described. Bent across Mycroft’s desk, feeling the other man’s body pressing into him, the long forgotten sound of a deeper voice moaning at the intimate contact. The flush turned into a pool of heat collecting in his groin, and Greg shifted in his seat at the reaction. He cleared his throat, it then hesitated, thinking about the other interesting card he’d received.

If he had to choose, Greg would pick the first card as being from Mycroft. It was more refined, although the sentiment seemed a little over the top from the usually reserved man. Greg looked again at the signed card, the offer once again to ‘satisfy both our carnal needs’. As he tilted the paper, a watermark became visible. Greg held it up to the window, the light showing a crest and one word: _Diogenes_. Greg sat back, his hand holding the paper falling to his lap. Diogenes. The Diogenes Club, more exclusive that just about anywhere. Mycroft was the only person Greg knew who was a member, the only one with any reason to send a letter on their watermarked stationery. That sealed it in Greg’s mind – he didn’t know who sent the first card, but the second must from Mycroft. As he read it again, the sense of unease about the phrasing came back to him. Why would Mycroft send such a blatant come on? It was hardly his style, unless it was a joke? Pretty odd, especially for Mycroft. The only jokes he’d heard Mycroft utter had been dry observations, the kind that tended towards the dark and twisted. But it was signed. And the watermark...

With a sudden decision, Greg picked up his phone and dialled the secure line Anthea had once given him. He’d never used it since that case, and as he listened to it ring, he hoped Mycroft was still the sole user of the line.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greeted him.

“Hi Mycroft,” Greg replied, his courage failing him somewhat. “Er…I got your Valentine.”

Dead silence.

“Mycroft?”

“I’m here.”

“Um,” Greg stumbled, “I was wondering, I mean…” the longer he spoke, the worse the idea sounded. He swallowed. “Were you serious?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Mycroft replied. His voice was even more stilted than usual.

“Well it was, just, um a bit out of character,” said Greg. He was cringing now at the conversation, but there was no turning back. “I hadn’t imagined you’d…have thought about me. Like that. Before.” He waited, breathing slowly until Mycroft spoke again.

“While it may appear to be out of character,” said Mycroft, his voice quiet, “be assured I was sincere in my declarations.”

Greg swallowed. He didn’t know what to say. Was Mycroft offering a one off night, or something more permanent? Was it just sex he was interested in, or did he have romantic intentions as well?

“Well, I just…wasn’t sure what exactly you were expecting?” Greg heard his inflection rise at the end, making his statement a question. He winced, rushing on to try and clarify himself. “I mean, it was pretty explicit, I’m not sure I’d be…I mean…” Greg stopped, running one hand through his hair in frustration.

“Of course,” Mycroft’s voice came smoothly, cutting off anything further. “No explanation needed, Detective Inspector. I will make no further mention of the subject.”

“Hang on,” Greg said, but Mycroft was gone. “Shit,” he swore to himself. Whatever had transpired, that conversation had been a little off. He had the distinct feeling neither of them had managed to be quite clear in what they were saying, but the outcome was simple: Mycroft thought he wasn’t interested. Before he had the chance to call Mycroft back, Sally stuck her head in his door.

“Job, boss,” she said then eyed the pile of Valentines on his desk. “Mr. Popular, hey?” Greg ignored her smirk, picking up his coat and phone as he walked past her out of his office.

+++

The scene was an odd one, the kind of weirdness Sherlock thrived upon. Greg shook his head even as he thumbed his phone. The paper he’d jammed in his pocket brushed once again his fingers, reminding him of the disastrous conversation with Mycroft.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock’s voice filled his ear.

“Got one for you.” Greg said, trying to sound enticing. “It’s a weird one.”

“I’m flattered,” Sherlock drawled. “We’ll be there. Text me the address.” He hung up on a surprised Greg. Since when had Sherlock agreed to attend a crime scene without cajoling? Whatever.

When his phone rang less than a minute later, Greg didn’t even look at the caller ID. “I thought you were coming.”

“Change of plans. Busy.” Sherlock said abruptly. “If you can’t solve it today, call me tomorrow.” Again, Sherlock hung up before Greg had a chance to reply. Irritated, Greg called him back, but the phone was off. With a sigh, he resigned himself to a day of bewilderment as they tried to make sense of the crime scene.

+++

Five hours and one visit from his boss later, a fuming Greg sat in a cab on the way to Baker Street. He’d not realised one of the victims was a member of Parliament; apparently it warranted him getting reamed out by the Superintendent in front of his whole team. The usually reasonable man was obviously under pressure to get this cleaned up, and quietly. “I don’t care, Lestrade,” Superintendent Underwood has snapped, “just get it done.”

When he’d finally stormed out, Greg had gritted his teeth and stalked out. Sally hadn’t needed even a look to know where he was going. “I’ll keep Philip from releasing the bodies,” she muttered to him as he left. She knew how Sherlock worked as well as Greg did.

At Baker Street, Greg leaned on the doorbell until John finally answered it.

“Greg,” John said, looking guilty. Greg knew guilt in all its forms, but right now he didn’t care a whit for what John had been up to.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Greg asked. “I need him, John.”

John pointed up the stairs, surreptitiously wiping at his mouth. Greg ignored it, stomping on each tread, hoping some of his foul mood would dissipate before he had to try and convince Sherlock to come to the crime scene.

“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock greeted him, sounding smug about something Greg chose to ignore.

“Sherlock,” Greg began, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Sherlock said. “Any interesting cards this year?”

Greg stared. “What are you talking about?”

“The Yard are doing a ridiculous card swap. Donovan thoughtfully included me in the email.” Sherlock reminded him.

“Yeah. Right. I got a few.” Greg peered at him suspiciously. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I thought you might be hoping for someone to bend you over their desk, finally address that bisexuality you’ve been repressing. Someone discreet, of course.” The smug look morphed into glee as he watched Greg’s mind work. His words had evoked the memory of the second unusual Valentine Greg had opened this morning. The clues had subtly pointed at Mycroft – except the signature of ‘MH’ – but Greg could see in Sherlock’s face that he was responsible for the prank. Not Mycroft, then. As he fought his embarrassment and annoyance at Sherlock, Greg remembered the phone call he had made when he’d thought that note had been from Mycroft.

_…be assured that I was sincere in my declarations…_

Mycroft hadn’t questioned the pronouncement that Greg had received a card from him. But Sherlock had sent the second card. That could only mean Mycroft sent the _first_ card, the one with the watercolour rose on the front. Greg blinked, the words rising in his mind once more.

_I send this card without expectation or agenda…I find myself fascinated by your motivations and I desire a more intimate knowledge of you, in all ways possible…_

“Fuck.” Greg’s mouth moved of its own volition. Mycroft really was interested in him, and Greg had asked him if he was serious, made it sound as though he was making fun of Mycroft. He focussed on the room again, seeing Sherlock’s smirk again. “Fuck.” Without thinking, Greg made a fist and drew back. There was no way Sherlock was expecting it, so the punch hit him right in the mouth. It wasn’t really all that hard, but there was a satisfying well of blood and a cry of surprise. Greg stood back, shaking his fist as he looked at Sherlock, one hand at his bloody mouth.

“You’re a right prat, Sherlock,” he snarled. “Don’t come looking for cases. I’m sure we’ll manage without you for a good long while.” Pushing past John, who’d dashed up the stairs at Sherlock’s cry, Greg stalked down the stairs and out to find a cab.

He’d hoped to be in a better mood on his way back to the scene, but Greg’s anger still boiled close to the surface. It was too close to think clearly, so he stopped the cab a few blocks short, intending to walk and burn off some of his frustration. Not only was Sherlock an arse, but there was Mycroft to consider. Greg’s heart plummeted as he thought about their conversation again. Mycroft had written those heartfelt words, and as far as he knew, Greg thought it had been a joke. Pulling the card from his coat pocket, Greg re read the words.

They were somewhat gauche, reminding Greg again of the awkward notes he’d slipped to girls, hoping for a kiss or two. As awkward as they had been, his words had always been one thing – sincere. Reading the carefully penned words again Greg smiled to himself (how could he have missed the handwriting? There was no way Mycroft’s penmanship was as sloppy as on the other card). No matter how old he was, the quietly romantic gesture still made his breath catch. Mycroft wanted him. Desired him. Closing his eyes, Greg reached to find the attraction he’d quashed many moons ago. It was there, waiting for him, simmering away, stoked by the regular contact they had shared over the years.

“Fuck,” Greg swore again, wishing he had a cigarette. He thrust the card back into his pocket, pulling out his mobile again. Should he call Mycroft? He had to explain, somehow. But would Mycroft listen to him? He had to be hurt, embarrassed, perhaps unwilling to even take a call from Greg. Sighing, Greg composed Mycroft a message he hoped would prompt the other man to reach out.

 _If you still have Sherlock’s flat bugged, watch what happened this afternoon._ Greg thought some more. _His card was far less subtle than yours. I’m sorry. Please call me. Greg_

He reread the message, hoping the hook of his brother’s misdemeanour would compel Mycroft to act. As for right now, he had an impossible pair of murders to solve. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Greg muttered to himself, striding up the street to his scene. For the first time ever, Sally would be unhappy Sherlock refused to come.

+++

Dinnertime at the crime scene came and went with few leads and even fewer ideas about what had happened. Fortunately there had been no further sign of Superintendent Underwood, and they’d eventually relocated to the office, allowing the grim clean-up begin. Greg and Sally had become shorter and shorter with each other until they were barely on speaking terms. He had overheard her half whispered argument with Anderson, presumably about the late hour; Greg assumed Anderson’s wife was away on business again. It hadn’t improved her mood, and Greg knew it would be a long evening, especially with such pressure from the Superintendent.

Finally, he’d sighed and rubbed his face. “That’s it for today,” he’d said finally. Too tired even for proper sentences, he added, “Tomorrow.” Sally had nodded and hastily packed her stuff, leaving Greg alone in the office. He knew they’d be okay tomorrow after some sleep and food. As he was reaching for his briefcase, Greg’s phone pinged. He ignored it, figuring emergencies would warrant a phone call. Looking at the state of his desk, Greg decided to pick up the essentials and walk out. He’d be back tomorrow anyway, no need to tidy. Resolutely ignoring the pang as his fingers brushed Mycroft’s envelope, Greg groped for his phone before shutting off the lights and leaving the darkened office. His footfalls were slow and tired down the stairs, the cool outside air reviving him somewhat as it brushed over his face. He didn’t sense the person behind him before they spoke.

“Detective Inspector.” The title was spoken carefully, but Greg knew the voice.

“Hi, Mycroft,” he replied without turning around. His anger at Sherlock had drained with his energy, and now even the anxiety at this meeting with Mycroft was dulled with fatigue.

“I did as you suggested and reviewed the afternoon at Baker Street,” Mycroft said carefully. “I’m pleased to report my brother does not require dental work.”

Greg considered, finally turning around to look at Mycroft. “I’m not sure if I’m happy about that or not,” he said. Mycroft looked apprehensive, the first time Greg had seen such obvious emotion on his face. As he watched, Mycroft tilted his head in acknowledgement of Greg’s comment.

“Fair enough,” Mycroft murmured, his face still grave.

“How did you even know about the…card thing?” Greg blurted. Sherlock had been included in the group email, not Mycroft.

“Sherlock’s emails are monitored, of course.” Mycroft looked slightly uncomfortable at this admission. “Situations in which he may…cause trouble…are routinely brought to my attention.” There was an awkward silence, Greg knowing what he wanted to say without having the energy to form the words. He took a deep breath, but just as he steeled himself, opening his mouth, Mycroft spoke.

“May I see the letter my brother sent on my behalf?” his face had closed again, Greg saw, and he wondered if it was to mask his embarrassment. Without a word, Greg pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it over. Mycroft’s hand brushed his as they both gripped the paper; Greg’s tired brain swirled with half-conceived ideas as to the motive behind it. Was it intentional? Those ponderings moved to the back of his mind as he studied Mycroft’s face. Under normal circumstances he would be amused, knowing the explicit contents Mycroft was about to read. Right now, the fatigue and upheaval of the day combined to flatten his emotional response. He watched Mycroft’s eyebrow rise, the flush moving rapidly up his cheeks.

“I see what you mean,” he murmured, refolding the paper. “Far more explicit than my efforts.”

Was he…resigned? Disappointed? Greg frowned. “What?” he asked bluntly. As Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, Greg’s frown deepened, his mind processing sluggishly. “Are you…do you think I’m disappointed?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied unconvincingly. Greg blinked. He thought Mycroft was a better liar than that.

“Perhaps,” Greg repeated. “Why would I be disappointed?” He fumbled for words. “Your words…they were beautiful.” Mycroft looked sceptical. “Seriously,” Greg tried again. “No-one’s ever told me that before.” He knew his speech was clumsy but it was the best he could do.

The expression on Mycroft’s face was still disbelieving, and Greg had the sudden idea of _showing_ rather than _telling_. He stepped closer to Mycroft, the slow rush of recognition beginning to alleviate some of his tiredness. Through the thickness in his head, Greg managed a few coherent thoughts. Mycroft came. He wasn’t angry. If anything, he seemed to think Greg wouldn’t be interested in the man who composed the first letter. Greg had to fix it. He stepped in again, close enough now to hear Mycroft’s rapid breathing. Without pause, Greg leaned in, breathing deeply to allow Mycroft’s scent to fill his lungs. It took only another few centimetres before his lips touched Mycroft’s. An anonymous sigh escaped, breath blowing over skin. Greg felt Mycroft shudder, then press forward, cementing their connection. It was no more than a melding of skin, chaste and tender but Greg felt it down to his bones. He clutched at Mycroft, vertigo pulling him in all directions; the happiness flowing though him could do only so much to keep him upright. Pulling back slightly, Greg allowed his eyes to roam over Mycroft’s face. His eyes remained closed a moment longer, and Greg saw the slight smile as his lips twitched.

“Do you have a date this evening?” Mycroft asked quietly, “Or was my brother mistaken?”

“I should have been working,” Greg replied, “case is a nightmare.” He hadn’t been able to take the night shift in the end, with such a big case on his plate. He wasn’t looking forward to working it without Sherlock.

Mycroft hesitated before saying, “May I make a suggestion?” he continued without waiting, eyes raking over Greg. “Perhaps I might read over your case file on the off chance I could be of assistance.” Greg felt himself sag with relief. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he said, ignoring the stab of disappointment that Mycroft wanted to fill his empty evening with work. Maybe the kiss hadn’t been so great on his side, then.

“And then,” Mycroft continued, his eyes still fixed on Greg, “I would be very pleased to take you to dinner.”

“Really?” Greg felt himself asking.

“Did you not read my card, Gregory?” Mycroft asked, a gentle smile on his lips.

Greg felt himself blush, and he shrugged.

“Dinner would be great,” he said. “Have you booked somewhere? It is Valentine’s Day, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Mycroft replied. “A most remarkable Valentine’s Day, in fact.”

“I haven’t written you a card,” Greg told him, his mind swirling with happiness and fatigue. He doubted he would even make it to dinner.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg wondered if he was addressing the words or the thought. “We have plenty of time.” 


End file.
